Method to the Madness
by OverlyDramatic
Summary: For Casey, life needs perfect order. After all, there's a method to getting almost anything. Dasey.


For those who care, sorry about the delay on the chapter story; I've been drowning in a bottomless pit of anxiety and couldn't quite get to it. I managed inspiration for another page of completely off chapter material, but that's how it goes. Rather than forcing shoddy work, this popped into my head. Keep in mind, I wrote this with a migraine forming, so . . . yeah. Lol.

**Disclaimer: Don't even go there.**

Casey was a rational person. Rarely did a thought cross her mind that couldn't be catalogued or dismissed, and never did she stray outside the realm of what could be considered normal—or so she told herself. It was easy to keep up this façade, and it made life run smoothly. And what was better than a life without bumps in the road? She could study and shop, relax with friends and date—all without fear of consequences, for she had everything figured out in advanced. Of course, she couldn't know exactly what might happen, but if one looked at a situation logically, they could almost always come to a simple conclusion as to its cause or outcome. She had lived her entire life in such a way, and felt no need to change anytime soon. Unfortunately, life changed for her. Suddenly, she was thrust into a world without order, where chaos paraded as normalcy and nonsense pretended to be life. She was befuddled, unstructured, antsy. She didn't like it. But she found a way, as she always did. If looked at in the right light, even the most chaotic of experiences could gain some semblance of order. She went on with her life, allowing herself the occasional slipup—her new environment did take its toll sometimes—but managing to keep her life much as it had always been. Ordered. Controlled. Manageable.

But in her organization and cataloguing—all the more necessary in this new life, where mistakes were more frequent and often harder to condemn—she began to realize something. She felt something, maybe quite a bit of something, for the Lord of Chaos himself; the one person who went against everything she stood for, and wasn't affected in the slightest no matter what she did. She had something quite resembling real emotions—emotions she refused to put a name to—for one Derek Venturi: Lord of the Lies, King of Disarray, Stepbrother from Hell. Somehow, she had become attracted to the single-handed cause of most of her problems since the cataclysmic marriage of their parents.

At first, she blatantly and dramatically rejected the idea, with no small bit of incredulous fumbling on her part for the thoughts she found herself facing. It wasn't everyday that one discovered something so base and unethical about themselves, and it took her quite a while to come to terms with what that said about her character. But eventually, gradually, it wasn't so shocking anymore. It was almost . . . feasible. Then acceptable. Then desirable. And one night, sitting alone in front of a half full notebook in which she had completed her homework only moments before, she began to write. At first it was nothing but ramblings; a way for her to organize the whirl of thoughts in her mind. After all, this wasn't something she could let play out naturally. She wanted it, but were she to delude herself that it could actually happen she would need a distinctively different approach than with any romantic endeavors of the past. Not that this had to do with romance in the slightest. And somehow, of its own accord, the methodical scratchings took form, and before she knew it she was looking at a complete study involving groups, charts and lists: the basis for her life. In that moment, she knew something had to be done.

She took to the task with the same measured strokes that had gotten her thus far. It wasn't a relationship she was after, merely one moment. One chance at one kiss. Then she could accept that part of her desires as fulfilled and move on with her life. And after all, no other way was guaranteed to work. Taking chances always left that uncertainty, but when Casey put her mind to something, her goals were never unreachable with the aid of habit and tactic.

She began to watch him. Study his behavior. His reactions. She learned, despite her inclinations, to keep part of herself detached when they argued or fought. It took a few weeks, but soon a part of her brain instinctively analyzed his retorts during heated discussions, mentally recording his movements in relation to her own. Her feelings had always been the one area of her life she had no control over; funny, that in her fury towards him she could act so erratically, yet this seemed to fall so easily into place. It was simply elementary, and there was no reason to complicate things.

Soon, she began to formulate her knowledge into a plan. She had come to know Derek over the past few months, studied him over the last few weeks, and she was confident in her ability to predict both his movements and how precisely he would respond to her own. Despite his wild and unpredictable nature, Casey found that deep down he was a creature of habit just like the rest of them. Just like her. He could plan and predict. He manipulated. That's all she was doing, really: manipulating the situation to her own benefit. Just like he so often did in his tireless quest to irk her. Method and habit: the things she had come to find that were the only guaranteed ways to success.

And so it began. A flash of skin as she sat down for dinner, an accidental touch when she handed him a plate; a quirk of her brow when his mouth ran away with him, a firm grip on his fingers as she snatched her book from his possession; crossing her arms with petulant irritation when he said something rude, the ever-more-intense light that sparked in her eyes as they argued. Making sure he glimpsed her walking through the hall in her towel, just before she disappeared around her doorjamb. It wasn't that she was degrading herself, she rationalized. It wasn't like she was parading about the house, hoping he would glance her way. She was merely implementing the necessary steps to gain the desired result.

And so she continued her methodical tactics to win Derek's attention. It didn't matter that she wasn't building trust or learning to compromise—she didn't need to keep him, after all. She wanted to experience that sensation she couldn't help but imagine and be done with it once and for all.

It didn't take long. Though Derek made certain to keep his face schooled, she knew it was getting to him. She saw it in the way he ate his breakfast, eyes shifting casually as if he weren't sure whether or not he wanted a flash of side as she sat. She saw it when he irritated her—making sure to keep physical contact to a minimum without appearing to change his countenance in the least—and in the twitching of his fingers when she shoved his arm away from her belongings. But it was most apparent during their fights, when she felt that spark of real irritation flare in her chest and knew her eyes blazed; when she stood so close she could feel the angry bursts of air across her brow. She knew he wanted nothing more than to lean down and claim her, regardless of the absolute annoyance that painted his features. So she took the final step: slowly tilting her neck the necessary inches to watch him with still fiery eyes, inching her face almost imperceptibly forward while the angry twitch of her lips stayed firmly in place. He would do the rest, she was certain. Her observations did not fail her. His eyes caught hers and she filed away her rising doubts of the intelligence of her plan, the sudden questions of the morality of it all. She forced her face smooth, watching him. Just once. Then she would be done. Once. He seemed to be simultaneously unaware of his gradual motion, and battling thoughts only he could see—but she could guess. Then their lips were centimeters apart and he accepted it with the same cool confidence he did every unforeseen situation—that carelessness for uncertainty she could never seem to duplicate. Though why she would want to-

She found she couldn't finish the thought. That was wrong—not finishing thoughts, not completing her ideas—but she couldn't remember why. Her breath hitched as the soft touch shifted: lips pressed harder, insistent, and she obliged them without wondering why. Her plans had disappeared, her method and strategy evaporated in the haze of her mind, that haze of feeling and being and existing in _that moment_. It took her a few moments to even register the footfalls growing steadily louder, and by the time she realized she didn't really care he had already dropped the hand that had unintentionally shifted her shirt up to her waist. Still, her eyes stayed closed, grasping the last sensations: her fingers around his arm, the warmth of their closeness, the slight sticking of her gloss to lips as he pulled away. This was all she had: one chance. Her mouth parted slightly as his pulled free; Casey finally allowed her eyes to drift open, but couldn't bring herself to look for Derek's reaction. From the corner of her eye she saw him collapse casually into a chair as whichever family member who interrupted finally entered the room.

And then it was over. The mood was broken and her focus sharpened as she jolted back to her life of facts and planning. It wasn't a family member at all, but one of her mother's clients who had come for a last minute meeting a few hours earlier. She smiled back vaguely as the woman nodded a greeting before walking easily out the door. At the click of the catch, Casey lowered herself onto the couch, tugging her shirt straight and focusing on the TV. Her mother would be out soon, and dinner came shortly after. Normalcy had resumed, and Casey had gotten what she wanted. But somehow, she couldn't help but feel disappointed. Maybe there was more to it than getting what she wanted. Maybe there was a better way than rigid guidelines and ensuring that she never strayed. Maybe there was something easier, more meaningful. Maybe, just maybe, it could have been different. Because Casey couldn't bear the thought that gaining something so warm and lively could leave her feeling so cold and unaccomplished.

**GGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG**

Yeah, so not exactly sure about this one, but that's normal for me. It kind of struck me last night and wouldn't stop pestering. I know there's no dialogue, but it didn't really work with the mood I was going for. It may also be a little OOC, but I was going more for the perfect Casey aspect and ignoring her drama queen tendencies. Let me know what you think.


End file.
